


After Hours

by SubwayWolf



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Drunken Confessions, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Hands all over, Interrupted Kiss, Jealous Anders, Lap Sitting, M/M, Neck Kissing, Sensuality, Storytelling, Touchy-Feely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-06-06 09:42:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6748672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SubwayWolf/pseuds/SubwayWolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a night out with the team, Fenris and Hawke are naturally inclined to spend some intimate time together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After Hours

**Author's Note:**

> A friend on tumblr wanted fenhawke/hawris which was kind of scary because I've only ever written andershawke but ngl I think in my gameplays I've romanced them an equal number of times each. It's kind of embarrassing how long this got? It took me forever. It was meant to be kept sfw so I thought I wouldn't even be able to get it over 1k but look at me now. Damn.

Early in the evening at the Hanged Man, the group of Hawke, Anders, Fenris, Merrill, Carver, and Varric spent time together and relaxed. They were joined by the ever present Isabela, who, like Varric, spent most if not all of her time here at the bar. Unlike Varric, she enjoyed the company wholeheartedly and was not a sight for sore eyes. “The bastard wasn't even listening to me,” she began, a smile on her painted lips, leaning back in her chair. “I had a knife to his throat and he wasn't even making eye contact!”

Raising an eyebrow and speaking through a grin, Anders interrupted her. “Could it be something was distracting him from making direct eye contact? Something you have no intention to hide and shamelessly show off instead, perhaps?”

Carver was, of course, not enjoying the evening out because of Anders’ presence. He narrowed his eyes. There was a half-empty jug of ale in his hands that he sloshed around as he glared. “You are such an ass,” he sighed. 

Half-shrugging, Anders looked at Hawke and was met with a smile. “I used to live in the Circle, remember? I’ve worn my fair share of dresses.” As usual, Anders was not well-liked by Hawke’s friends. This was because, according to Fenris, Anders was not particularly likeable. Hawke couldn’t argue with that.

Varric was seated on the couch with Hawke, an entire seat cushion away from him. Around them were, counter-clockwise, Fenris, Anders, Merrill, Carver, and then Isabela, all of them in wooden chairs they had dragged over into Varric’s room for extra seating. After taking a sip of his drink, Varric gestured to Anders. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something, Blondie. Do the feathered pauldrons ever catch fire when you’re doing your fancy spells?” 

Anders refused to answer, predictably. “Do I even want to ask why you’re curious about that?”

“I’m drafting a short story about an overzealous mage who dooms himself to a quick death because of vigorous showboating and an inclination towards idealism. I promise it’s not based off of you.” Varric made quick work of publishing his stories about his friends; they were good, but often over-embellished, which was better, they supposed, than the occasional piece that was psychoanalytic and uncomfortably accurate.

This was definitely something Anders did not like the sound of. The mage was apprehensive, as he had the right to be. “I don’t believe that for a second. And I can’t imagine you’d kill off your main character by having him set himself on fire by accident.” He glared through narrow eyes, folding his arms across his chest.

“Well,” Varric answered, grinning boldly, “I don’t know about you, but I’d definitely call that hubris. Or maybe it’s just dramatic irony – I can never tell the difference.”

Before Anders had the chance to open his mouth and argue, Isabela spoke up. “The robes are a nice touch,” she said, giving Anders a slow once-over. “You look amazing in them, but I’d bet you look better out of them.” Isabela was not shy to flirt with literally every member of Hawke’s team. Fenris and Anders were never receptive, so she often tried her luck with Varric, who played along, or Carver, who blushed bright red, or Hawke, who shamelessly reciprocated for the fun of things.

Anders raised an eyebrow, hardly fazed. “Hawke used that line on me when we first met and it didn’t work then, either.” He kept his arms across his chest, the body language displaying that he was uncomfortable. “Besides, I’m not interested in you. Sorry.” He looked back to Varric, hoping he might elaborate further about the epic poem, but the subject was already past changed.

Tossing her dark hair over her shoulder, Isabela shrugged. “I don’t really care if you’re not interested,” she admitted, laughing mildly. “I’m still going to look at you all I want.” Obviously, it did not concern her if Anders was uncomfortable or not.

Merrill seemed genuinely concerned and shook her head at Isabela. “You can’t go making Hawke jealous, Isabela. He is the leader, after all. It’s disrespectful to flirt with his boyfriend.” She didn’t seem to realize that she was implying something that didn’t exist and was startled when Isabela and Varric burst into unforgiving laughter.

Carver started making gagging noises, holding his nose and wrinkling his face mockingly. “Gross! Don’t give me that mental image!” He opened one eye to see if his brother was upset, which Hawke wasn’t; he was too amused and wouldn’t give his brother the satisfaction.

Merrill looked to Anders, who sighed, and then back to Hawke. She covered her mouth with one hand. “Oh! I thought…” When Isabela and Varric started laughing harder into their drinks, her cheeks began to flush. “I just thought… I’m sorry!”

Hawke was smiling hugely at this entire situation. “Oh, it’s alright, Merrill. But it’s hard for me, you know? With everyone on my team being so damn pretty, it’s impossible to choose.” This softened Merrill’s shocked expression into a giggling one and cleared the tension of the situation.

Jumping out of his seat, Varric gestured them over to a table on the opposite side of the room. “That reminds me. Come look at my transcript, why don’t you?” He wasn’t speaking to anyone in particular. “I’m halfway through the first act of The Hawke’s Tale. Maybe you lot can give some pointers.” Varric knew better than to ask Hawke for writing help, because Hawke, despite his rampant imagination, was an atrocious writer. He also could not ask Fenris, because he was too literal and did not have the mind for such things. Anders and Isabela, he had more faith in.

Almost at once, Isabela stood to follow him. “Ooh,” she said excitedly. “I can give you some pointers on the more steamy scenes.” She turned over her shoulder and gave Hawke a wink before going back face again, holding out her hand for Merrill. “You have quite the imagination, kitten. You can help, too.” Merrill smiled, took her hand, and followed.

Anders sighed as he got to his feet. “I can help fact check,” he offered. He looked to Hawke with a smile. “I have a feeling our friend Hawke tends to embellish his own feats of bravery.” Hawke nodded because Anders was, of course, right, and when the mage turned back around, Hawke watched Anders walk away.

Carver leapt to his feet and followed Anders. “My brother embellishes his feats of stupidity as well,” he said, making sure he was loud enough for his brother to hear. 

Standing at the table and shuffling through his papers, Varric laughed to himself. “All constructive feedback is welcome. At long as it isn’t mean.”

With Anders across the room with Varric and Isabela, Hawke and Fenris were practically alone together, seeing that the others’ backs were turned to them. Fenris sat in his wooden chair alone, glass of wine up to his lips but not drinking. He was wearing his black day clothes with the chest plate removed. The fabric was a thin form of leather, black as night, trimmed with a dull midnight blue. It fit him superbly, incomparably well, and Hawke found himself yet again dreaming about what his dark, marked skin looked like beneath the leathers.

Hawke spoke quietly, as if not to interrupt the revisions on Varric’s story. “Want to go help out?” he asked with a mild smile. Hawke would go on his own, but he did not want to leave Fenris sitting by himself.

The elf let out a sigh, looking at the ground. “I would rather not,” he said. It was not certain if he was simply not interested, or if he just did not want to spend any more time with Anders than he really needed to. Either way, he sat in his chair, not even budging or turning his head, only taking a sip of his wine. He seemed to know that Hawke would continue bugging him, so he did not leave his answer at that. Fenris lowered his glass of wine from his lips and turned his eyes towards Hawke, letting them linger for a moment before speaking, quietly, so only Hawke could hear. “Slaves are not permitted to read,” he admitted, a twinge of embarrassment in his voice. “I never learned.”

“Oh,” Hawke said dumbly. The news shocked him. He had never considered such a thing. When he saw Fenris look away, Hawke realized his reaction was not very kind. An idea came to mind. He whispered it, realizing Fenris was embarrassed at his lack of skill and perhaps only wanted Hawke to know. “It isn’t too late to learn,” he offered tenderly. “I could always teach you.” 

Fenris shifted his eyes. He obviously did not want the others to overhear this information. Across the room, Isabela started arguing with Varric about something, so it was clear the lot of them were not paying attention. He spoke softly to Hawke. “I would not waste your time with that.” He shook his head for a moment and then looked into his wine glass again.

Hawke shook his head. “It wouldn’t be a waste of time. I would be honored to teach you, if you would have me.” He smiled, because that was his natural, composed state around Fenris, and it seemed to calm him. “And at any rate, time kept company with you is well-spent.”

A smile crossed Fenris’ lips. “You make a tempting offer. I will consider it, Hawke.” Sniffing at his red wine, Fenris readjusted himself in his seat. He leered over at the arguing group with annoyed eyes, and then attended back to Hawke, looking at him for a long moment before deciding to speak. “As amusing as this is, I prefer privacy,” he began in a quiet voice.

Hawke frowned at Fenris. “You don’t want to go home, do you? The night is young. We’re only hardly drunk.” Hawke himself wasn’t drunk at all. How Fenris could manage to drink the piss the Hanged Man served, Hawke was not sure.

Fenris put his glass down on the table in front of him. “I don’t want to leave. I like spending time with you.” He glanced over at Anders and Isabela, who were fighting about a detail Varric got wrong in one of his chapter outlines. “I just wish it was more private,” he mused.

Hawke raised his eyebrows and felt his lips part. Excitement stirred in his stomach. “Oh,” he remarked. “You are drunker than I thought.” Fenris was always so careful with his words; he wouldn’t have said something like that unless he meant to imply something very specific.

A small smile crossed his face. “No,” he responded, “I still have my cognition about me. I’ve been wanting some alone time with you, recently.” The smile was stagnant and it made Hawke half curious, half nervous. “To talk.”

“Talk?” Hawke repeated. “Huh.” Hawke knew better than to jump to conclusions regarding Fenris. They had known each other for months now, growing closer. Hawke was very cautious and never did anything without making sure Fenris was comfortable first. The chance that he would hurt or trigger Fenris in any way made Hawke nervous. He ran through his head a million different possibilities but decided he should just ask. “Is there something you want?” Perhaps Hawke was wrong - perhaps Fenris wasn’t trying to imply something sensual.

Or perhaps he was. Fenris’ smile fell, as did his voice, to a low whisper. “To become closer. To feel something.” Ever slightly, his brow knit, showing the apprehension. He sighed then, and looked away, reaching over for his wine glass again and taking a sip.

There it was, then. Confirmation to attest to the fact that Fenris wanted to be with him; it could not have been clearer. Hawke maintained calm. “Over here, then,” he said joyfully. He was sitting at the edge of the couch, right up against the left armrest, but he scooted to his right to give Fenris some room. He patted the seat; the area was not big enough for Fenris to sit in normally, just to fit his small frame inside and put his feet laterally over Hawke’s lap. “Put your feet up,” he suggested.

Fenris’ eyes narrowed when he asked, “You want me to sit on your lap?” Hawke did not need to answer this. Fenris looked at the space for him on the couch, then to Hawke again. And then one corner of his lips turned up in a smile. “Okay,” he allowed.

As he watched Fenris stand from his solitary wooden chair and approach him, Hawke was filled with joy. Fenris seated himself in the small space allotted for his behind and kept his back to the armrest of the chair while putting his feet up over Hawke’s lap. Hawke put an arm around him as Fenris crouched slightly, getting as close to Hawke as possible. Fenris was entirely lean muscle and not heavy in the slightest, in fact his thin frame allowed him to fit almost perfectly on Hawke’s lap, and he huddled closer to Hawke, feeling the warmth. Hawke had his other arm on one of Fenris’ legs, feeling the fabric of his thin black pants, feeling the urge to move his fingers down from Fenris’ shin and to his feet and toes, to touch his skin. 

“There,” he said once Fenris settled. Fenris turned his head and looked into Hawke’s eyes. They were inches apart now; Fenris was even prettier up close. He had beautiful olive-colored skin, dusky green eyes that he could have sworn were happy, and a pretty grin on his kissable lips. Hawke was smitten. “Hi,” he managed to say.

Fenris’ grin got slightly wider. “Hi.” He shifted so his body was as close as it could be to Hawke’s. He narrowed his eyes slightly. “Why do you want me here, within your reach?”

Hawke could feel the flittering of his own heart elevating in his chest. Still, he felt calm with Fenris there, fitting perfectly in place like a puzzle. Hawke’s fingers distantly ached. He wanted to bring them up to Fenris’ face, to touch him even for a moment, but he stilled his hands. He needed permission, he needed order, and he needed direction. “I am at your mercy,” he whispered. “At your command.”

Naturally, Fenris loved to hear that. This was the longest time Hawke had ever seen him smile consecutively. And those smiling lips were so close, only a breath away. Fenris spoke quietly in return. “I command you to touch me.”

Silently thanking the Maker, Hawke grinned fully, baring teeth. “Oh, I like it when you drink,” he mused, and quickly Hawke’s attention diverted his eyes to the lyrium white markings making those beautiful designs on Fenris’ flesh. Hawke brought the hand on his legs to Fenris’ face. The instant Hawke merely placed the pads of his fingers down, he could see Fenris’ eyes shift in a grimace he tried hard to hide. Hawke halted, moving his hand away. “Does it hurt?”

“No,” Fenris plainly lied. His eyes cast downwards as if he were embarrassed of himself. “The markings… yes. My flesh is tender to the touch, but it is nothing I can’t handle.” His green eyes met Hawke’s, showing confidence and a distant, kindled yearning. “Touch me, Hawke. I want this.” He almost added the word please but hesitated as if not to appear desperate.

Slowly, Hawke replaced his hand upon Fenris’ face. He kept cautious, watching Fenris’ eyes to make sure he did not falter. His skin was impossibly warm, soft to the touch. Hawke’s fingertips reveled in this, moving from Fenris’ blushing cheeks to the side of his neck to feel the softly-pulsating artery there. “Is this okay?” he asked as he paused, and when Fenris nodded gently, he moved on. He sifted his fingers back to Fenris’ hair, the straight white, almost shining mop that almost fell into his eyes. He ran his first four fingers through, keeping his thumb to Fenris’ jawline, pressing ever slightly. Letting his eyes fall closed, Hawke tilted his head and lowered it, burying it in the crook of Fenris’ neck, inhaling lightly. “I like how you smell,” he whispered, shifting his chin up so his nose was in Fenris’ stark white hair, clean like silk. Hawke smiled into his hair. “You’re so, so pretty.”

Fenris breathed his words, soft as a summer wind. “Keep your hands on me, Hawke,” he ordered, perhaps begged. He tilted his head to the left, allowing Hawke more room to breathe warm breaths and touch him there.

Hawke pulled Fenris closer, nearly unnoticeably so. “Tell me a story, Fenris,” he whispered. He opened one eye to see how the others were doing across the room – still arguing, encompassed, with their backs turned. Hawke closed his eyes again. “Varric’s not listening,” he encouraged.

“A story,” Fenris repeated. He brought a hand up to the hand Hawke had in his hair, touching him, holding him gently, barely placing any pressure. He guided Hawke’s movements on his skin, keeping them slow. “Yes, I think I have one to share.” His voice went quiet, but its low tone still vibrated in the air. “I used to have a dog. A gaunt, brown, mutt, scars across her face and body from battles. She lived in the alleys, roaming for scrap around where I lived. She stayed by me because I could protect her and I fed her whatever scraps I could salvage from my meals. She slept at my feet and enjoyed belly rubs.” His muscles started to tense as he gradually recalled and remembered. “When I began to serve Danarius, I had to get rid of her. I took her into the city and left her alone.”

Certainly, Hawke was not expecting this type of story. Fenris was not inclined to talk about his past. Almost at once, Hawke felt honored. He knew he should be giving Fenris his full attention. Hawke pulled his face away and looked him in the eyes, keeping the hand in his hair, still allowing his fingers to touch his neck. “Did she have a name?”

Fenris kept eye contact. “No. I wasn’t creative enough for that.” He smiled slightly. “I was in Danarius’ service the next time I saw the dog. She was older, larger, well-fed, but I recognized her unmistakably. She was living with a family now. Two small children, a mother and father, and she was just resting in the sun, asleep, enjoying her peaceful life.” Just as quickly, the smile fell. “Danarius must have seen the look on my face. He asked, so I told him who the dog was, that she used to belong with me.”

Hawke raised an eyebrow. The scene was hard for him to picture. “I’m a little surprised he asked your opinion on anything.” He shifted his hand upwards from Fenris’ neck to his jawline, strong but relaxed.

Leaning against the newly placed touch, Fenris drooped his eyes slowly to show contentedness similar to how a cat might have. “I was taken aback, but not surprised. It must have been the first emotion he’d seen from me since I’d joined into his service,” he explained. His relaxation faded quickly. His brow furrowed as he remembered the less happy details. “Danarius listened to every word. He nodded, he attended to the story. But I think he made his choice before I even finished speaking.” His muscles tensed in his shoulders, Hawke could feel this dramatic change. He took his hand down and Fenris broke eye contact. “Danarius… commanded that I kill the dog.” He shrugged. “So I did.”

“Oh,” Hawke breathed. He placed his hand on Fenris’ torso, up near the right half of his ribcage, where black plate armor protected his vitals and was uncannily cold to the touch.

“It might seem like it has a deeper meaning, but it doesn’t. It was just the way of things. It was his nature, and it was mine. The family who owned the dog, they screamed when they watched me, the children cried. The dog didn’t make a single sound.” Fenris placed his right hand upon the hand Hawke had placed on his torso, draping his fingers over it, just wanting to be touched. “You probably think I’m a monster, for that, for following through on the order.” 

“No, it’s not that,” Hawke clarified, “I’m just really impressed with the extended metaphor of it all.”

Fenris was quiet for a moment. He tightened his fingers around Hawke’s hand, slightly, holding it. His quietness meant the story had ended. “I suppose that was not a very good story,” he sighed. Fenris shifted his eyes again, meeting Hawke’s. He offered a smile, then lost it to a frown.

“I liked it,” Hawke smiled. “Thank you for telling me.” He started running through a list in his head of things he could do to make Fenris feel better, but came up blank.

Even then, Fenris did not smile. He looked away again, brow knit, considering something. “I have never told anyone about that before. Never wanted to. It feels strange…” He looked down at his own chest, where his hand was holding Hawke’s. “I’ve undertaken the habit of never let anyone too close.” Truly, Fenris did not need to explain this, but he must have felt there was a reason to. He met eyes with Hawke again, and Hawke could see there was something gleaming in them. “But you are a man unlike any other I have met, Hawke.” His voice was low, quiet, and hopeful. “With you, it might be different.”

Hawke had a million questions, the first one being if Fenris was willing to try. But he didn’t ask, because he didn’t want to hear the truth, in case it might be bad. If he could hold that off, he would, for as long as possible.

A natural light in his green eyes showed him to be happy, and even more, there was affection there, vibrant and clear. It made his voice song-like, noticeably higher, both cautious and careful. “But I digress. Is there anything you would like to speak of?”

Though he had indeed come for a reason, he did not want to address it just yet. “Nothing good. I admit I didn’t want you over here for any reason – at least, not a good one,” he said through a smile. “Spending so many nights awake thinking of you isn’t the same as seeing you in person.” He grimaced slightly. “My imagination isn’t very good, I’m afraid,” he admitted, leaving the statement up for as much interpretation as Fenris would like.

Fenris narrowed his eyes slightly, leering at Hawke with an allusive smirk. “You say what’s on your mind, I’ll give you that.” As quickly as his eyes shifted, he had the glass to his lips and he was drinking from it again. “Something you and Anders have in common,” he added. 

It was not like Fenris to be hurt by any comment Anders made, and it didn’t seem like he exactly was now. Anders had certainly gone too far the last time they had bantered, and Hawke started feeling guilty. “I shouldn’t have to apologize for his behavior, but you know he won’t do it himself.”

Fenris’ pacing was calm and easy. “No, he won’t.” Fenris ignored the fact that he was being looked over. “And I doubt he will ever relax his jealousy – he might not be capable. He is naturally insufferable, and joined with the fact that he’s in love with you, repeated disaster is assured.” 

The declaration was so nonchalant and sudden that it took Hawke by surprise, stealing his attention right back to the topic. Something deep inside of Hawke already knew it to be true, but his doubts and fears for its genuineness surpassed that, and he had convinced himself already that it was far from the case. Fenris’ confidence only worsened Hawke’s fear. Nonetheless, he dreaded thinking about it and just pushed it to the back of his mind again.

“Is that why you’re here right now? Sitting with me?” Hawke was admittedly still dumbfounded by Fenris’ display of affection. Fenris was no simple man, so Hawke was inclined to think was here for a different, unspecified reason.

Fenris appeared to be mildly wounded by the accusation. He raised an eyebrow. “Do you really think I’m that petty?” Even his tone made him seem offended.

Hawke half-shrugged to keep up the joke, but the answer was satisfactory. He didn’t actually think Fenris was petty. In fact, he tended to be the opposite in all situations that didn’t involve mages. “I recall that you threw an entire bottle of wine against a wall without offering me a glass first,” he said matter-of-factly. 

When Fenris laughed, he did so heartily, his eyes falling closed and his cheeks brightening slightly. Hawke felt the overwhelming, heavy urge to touch or kiss him again, but looking at him was suddenly more than enough. He was beautiful, and Hawke felt partly honored and partly surprised that he could make the elf laugh like this. He was just as beautiful when he stopped laughing and turned his face away and lowered his brow and thought hard about something silent that he kept in his mind. 

The elf’s characteristic grin was the one where he showed no teeth and half his lips turned upwards as his eyes narrowed ever slightly, and this happened now. “I have been thinking a lot recently about our friendship,” he said lowering his voice slightly. He turned his face, continuing his habit of avoiding eye contact. “I should thank you again for helping me clear out the mansion and kill those slavers all those months ago. It seems to me that I was ungrateful.” He looked away for just a second, and then glanced back. “Before I came to Kirkwall, I always travelled alone. I know now that having friends is the better way to live, though it might be a little more dangerous.” He looked at Hawke, his dull green eyes maintaining a certain regard that was nothing less than amity. “But I like danger.”

Hawke smiled genuinely. “Flatterer,” he accused. Truly, he was glad to be appreciated by Fenris. He liked being complimented by anyone, but gaining Fenris’ approval was a hero’s feat.

Nervously, Fenris raised a hand and rubbed the back of his neck, craning it slightly. “What I mean to say is, now that your time in Kirkwall is soon to end, the value of our friendship is becoming clearer to me.” Fenris was never too inclined to give out compliments, both because he did not know many people who deserved them and because he wasn’t very good at giving them.

Putting his arms on the table before him, Hawke leaned forward and narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Was that a compliment? From _you_!?” he asked with mock-suspicion. It felt good to get another mild laugh out of Fenris. “Are you trying to say that you’re going to miss me?” He wondered if urging him on would make saying the words easier.

“I’m not trying to say it. I’m declaring it.” Fenris was giving Hawke a look of high regard, the look shielding something deeper, something vulnerable. His voice ran quiet, but as they were alone in a deaf and mute room, his affirmations were clearly heard. “You have been a good friend, Hawke, the only one I’ve ever had. These past months have been the best of my life,” he paused, shifting into that grin again. “Though truly, that may not be saying much.” There was amusement in Fenris’ eyes.

Hawke’s heart wrenched, filling with calm heat. He could feel the warmth of Fenris’ hand on his own, and it made him fill with joy. He kept his voice as calm as he could. “It can be like this any time you want, Fenris,” he reassured him, no smile on his face just yet. “Call for me, and I will come to you. Whenever you want me.”

Dropping his voice to a low whisper, Fenris averted his eyes to conceal a sadness he was undoubtedly feeling. Something hurt him; some memory, some realization, yet he drew closer, moving his lips towards Hawke’s left ear to whisper, “I want you all the time. It doesn’t go away.”

Love, of all things, overwhelmed Hawke in that moment. It warmed him thoroughly and lit up his eyes and lifted him into a smile, and he could not for the life of him take his eyes or mind off of Fenris, this remarkable, exceptional elf, who was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, the most extraordinary individual Hawke had ever had the pleasure of encountering. If Hawke could have phrased this aloud he would have, but there was an unseen hand that halted Hawke from acting too hastily. There was also a guilt in his chest as he saw the sadness in Fenris’ eyes. So Hawke just stared, grinning tragically, a thousand thoughts running through him erratically as if they were some foreign language he did not understand.

The sadness in Fenris’ eyes was distant, and then gone. As he peered into Hawke’s eyes, a curious smile lightened his lips. “Why are you looking at me that way?” he inquired. 

There was one thing Hawke felt would make Fenris feel better, and he could not think of anything else once he pictured himself doing it. He glanced upon Fenris’ lips, aching for them, desperately ready to do anything to make Fenris happy. “Do I have permission to kiss you?” he whispered soundlessly. He turned his eyes back to up to meet Fenris’.

A barely-noticeable blush swept Fenris’ cheeks. He did not divert his eyes even for a moment. “Do you truly need to ask?” he responded. His baritone voice resonated even as he whispered, its low tone tingling Hawke’s eardrums.

Hawke bowed his head slightly. “I am at your mercy. Command me to kiss you, and I will.”

A flash of relief and contentedness passed across Fenris’ eyes. Before he even gave the command, Fenris was letting his eyes fall closed lazily and he was leaning in towards Hawke’s mouth until he was barely a breath away. “I command you to kiss me.”

And so they kissed, pressing their lips together in the bar. Fenris was calm, placid, allowing himself to be kissed. Hawke kept his eagerness at bay and progressed slowly, kissing Fenris’ lips with a gentle fervency, soft and slow. Their eyes were closed, their breathing halted, keeping all focus on the sensation of the kiss and the warmth of each other’s body heat. Fenris remained nestled upon Hawke’s lap and drew even closer, their bodies pressed against each other much as their lips were; malleable and relaxed and contented. 

Hawke kept his hand in Fenris’ hair, the silky sensation tickling his fingers as he held Fenris’ head in place. Fenris brought both hands up to Hawke’s face, holding him, grazing his thumbs across Hawke’s jawline and feeling the hairs of his outgrown beard pricking against the pads of his fingertips. They would pause to breathe on occasion, not rushing, keeping each other close and patiently allowing the affection and pleasure to surge through them like a slow summer sunrise. 

Kissing back, on Fenris’ account, was uncoordinated, but he must have been learning from example. The movements of Fenris’ soft lips were clumsy and aimless; likely, he’d never been kissed before, and was simply copying Hawke’s gentle motions. Hawke kept the hand around Fenris’ waist as if to support him, to ease him on, but he gave no other pressure. He backed down, hesitating to breathe, and let Fenris take control. Fenris shifted his hips, humming quietly, as if he were going to move to straddle Hawke’s waist and face him head-on, but he was too warm and relaxed to risk interrupting his happiness and stayed still, complacent and distantly fervent.

Hawke was exultant; Fenris as peaceful as he had ever been. They had both presumed this to be inevitable, though Hawke was mostly inclined towards making Fenris feel comfortable and welcome and at amity. This, he figured, was the best way to do it. Fenris’ hands, still holding Hawke’s face to his, fingers inadvertently slipping into his hair, were warm, placid reminders of what he was capable of and what he had endured. Above everything, Hawke felt honored to be considered worthy of such a person’s affection and reveled in being chosen and commanded to act this way. He almost could not comprehend that this elf seated tenaciously upon his lap was delving into him so willingly, with as much ardency as his entire being was capable of. The thought that Fenris could possibly love him had escaped his mind, but it was just as he had promised; he needed time and assurance and respect, and he had been given those things. Those emotional prerequisites were kindling, and love was the fire aching to be fed; Hawke and Fenris had been starving.

They were going on for a while without interruption, but it was clear that their actions had been discovered when they heard Isabela whisper, “Varric, check to see if Anders still has a pulse. His face just went ghost white.” Her mock-concern was filled more with amusement.

Carver spun around and caught a glimpse of his brother kissing Fenris, and his face twisted into a grimace. “Well,” he turned to Anders, chucking upon seeing his mortified face. “At least it’s not Anders. Thank the Maker!”

Merrill was overjoyed. “Oh, how sweet!” she whispered, trying her best to leave them privacy.

Varric’s voice was next, a hushed whisper, obviously trying to keep to himself and not interrupt something he was glad was happening. “Calm down, Blondie,” he addressed Anders, “This was months in the making. Let them be happy, it’s healthy for them.”

Then Anders’ voice came; the mage did not even bother to try and whisper. “I might actually be sick,” he groaned.

Hearing the comment made Fenris pull his lips away, turn his head, and release Hawke’s face. When Hawke opened his eyes, he saw Fenris glaring across the room, swollen lips in a scowl, though he was trying to hide his embarrassment. Fenris did not like the attention of all eyes in the room directed towards him, especially not in a moment of intimacy; his muscles were tense and his cheeks and the ridges of his ears were darkened red, very slightly. 

Isabela started to laugh to herself; as always, she was greatly amused by the severely childish actions of the boys around her. “Oh, by all means, continue,” she said to Fenris merrily, throwing her hands up. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I was rather enjoying watching you two go at it, actually.”

Thankfully, Varric had his head about him. He sighed at Isabela and then glared at Anders, effectively shutting the both of them up. “Do I really need to tell you to leave them alone? It’s like I’m talking to children,” he scoffed, turning again to his manuscript, not before giving Hawke an inconspicuous wink of approval. Soon, Isabela turned as well, laughing to herself, and Anders did, too, though he truly did look like he was going to be ill.

Fenris turned back to Hawke, and again, Hawke was encompassed. “Let’s go somewhere, Hawke,” he suggested in a whisper. A small smile turned up his lips. “We can do something interesting.” He brought a hand to Hawke’s shoulder, nearing his neck, and touched his skin there.

Naturally, Hawke looked directly into Fenris’ jubilant green eyes and whispered back, “Lead me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Got any requests or prompts for me? I'm open!!! Here's my FAQ which includes links to contact me, right on my [tumblr](http://subwaywolf.tumblr.com/fics).


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